Page 20 of The Problem with Princes
“What are you trying to accomplish, Son? She is a tour—”
I clear my throat. While I want to relish a bit longer in the kind sentiment of Prince Tyrone’s gesture, I need to let them know that their conversation isn’t private before one of them says something that will embarrass us all. “You may be interested to know that I’m fluent in Greek.” I speak the language to illustrate my point.
This time, it is me that makes the brows of every member of the royal family rise. I sit up a little straighter.
Prince Tyrone grins. “You speak Greek?” he asks in English.
I nod. “Yes.”
Texie nudges me. “She also speaks French, Spanish, Japanese and Russian.”
While I’m not completely comfortable with Texie’s pronouncement, it is probably better that she has put the information out there, just in case they try to use another language to converse with each other.
Prince Tyrone lets out a whistle. “What, no Arabic or Chinese? Your education must be lacking.” He winks at me. “That’s beyond impressive.”
What happened? Modern Ares left and a prince came back in his place.
The tension from earlier drains from my shoulders. This is the banter of friends, people comfortable with one another, not those who barely tolerate each other. It makes me second guess myself again. “Well, I don’t speak either fluently—yet. But I’m taking classes in both languages.”
His smile drops a fraction. “You’re not serious.”
Texie laughs at my side. “Actually, she is. Gee has an amazing talent for languages. It’s what sealed the deal on getting her hired at the top lobbying firm in DC.”
This is why we’re best friends. We don’t compete, rather we complement each other. I’m equally proud of Texie and her promotion. While I can’t help but bask a bit in the pride I hear in her voice, I also don’t want my job brought back up.
“Gee? I’m not familiar with this word. What does it mean?” The king’s brow furrows.
I grin. “My name is Grace. Gee is just Texie’s nickname for me.”
He nods. “I see.” He may see, but from the look on his face, he doesn’t like the nickname much.Oh well. He won’t have to hear it much after tonight.
“You’re a lobbyist?” The prince doesn’t sneer even a little. Is this even the same guy I had met the other day? Prince Tyrone is nothing like the Modern Ares that dumped his coffee all over me.
“Yep.” I shrug. “Well, a junior lobbyist/interpreter.” I can’t bring myself to confess that I have yet to lobby anything. Most days I feel more like a glorified research assistant/coffee fetcher. And people say I can make a wicked good espresso. So I guess I do have options, even if the smell of coffee makes me want to hurl.
With more and more of our clients coming from overseas, my skills in languageareputting me in higher demand, even if I’m not allowed to do any actual negotiating.
The prince nods, an appreciation in his eyes that is hard to miss.
My stomach goes all flippy and fluttery.
His mother says something in a language I don’t know. Turkish, maybe? Or perhaps Armenian? I smile. It isn’t often people have a second language they can revert to that I don’t understand. It appears I’m not the only linguist in the room.
She flicks a glance at me, as if she is checking to see that I’m not understanding what she is saying.
The door opens and the butler enters and bows. “Dinner is ready.”
Prince Tyrone extends his arm to me. “Will you do me the honor of accompanying me into dinner, Miss Martindale?” His tone is charming and endearing.
I nod and place my hand in the crook of his arm. I study him through side eyes, unable to account for the complete personality change in the man next to me.
ChapterEight
The roomwe enter doesn’t hold a long, fifty-seat table complete with glittering chandeliers and tapestries like I expected. Instead, the room is smaller with a large, round table. Thereisa chandelier, but it is a simple drum style, hanging from wrought iron fittings. It is both modern and ancient looking at the same time.
Prince Tyrone leads me to a spot at the table and pulls my chair out for me. He waits for me to sit down, before tucking the chair underneath me and taking the seat next to me.
I place the napkin on my lap, trying to discreetly observe the room around me. A darkly stained wood wainscoting covers the lower half of the room, extending ten to twelve feet up the tall walls. The upper half is painted a creamy yellow, blending into the mural of toga-clad men and women on the ceiling.
